Wand of Power, Cloak of Death
by Vanwilder
Summary: Death is unhappy to gift the Hallows to the three brothers, and each object is cursed with Death. What will Harry do, when he finds that the Hallows keep coming back? Not focused on pairing. NOT SLASH. Post DH, but EWE.
1. Author's Notes

AN : _A shout-out to "Man of Iron, Father of Gold" by Lunabell Marauder Knyte_.

Here's the customary disclaimer:

 _Every_ _thing recognisable belongs to their respective franchise. So, everything Harry Potter belongs to Joanne Rowling Murray._

I only own the idea behind the story, and make no monies from it.

AN2 :

Guys, whether you like it, hate it, want to see it improved, whatever you wish; just _please_ add a review. Us small-scale writers thrive on reviews to improve ourselves. It is how we get to know what you want in a story. And I _always_ read all reviews. So please guys, help us out a bit.

 _Thanks_!

AN3 :

This will _not_ be a linear story. It will be a series of excerpts at different points in time from different perspectives. It is something new I am trying, and frankly I am not very good in dialogue writing anyway. So tell me how it goes?

 ** _Lectio beatus_**


	2. Prologue

The Wand spoke of unimaginable power. It whispered words full of self praise and death. It was the most powerful Wand ever created, and it was the most destructive. Some of its users over the ages had wondered whether it was truly sentient. No one could win against it in a one-on-one duel. It wasn't very good with shields; as if it wasn't concerned about its owner. All it knew was power and death.

Death was very ingenious. Death was also fair.

So words were whispered into the subconscious mind of the owner's dear friends. Words filled with jealousy, with an intent.

It knew betrayal better than anyone alive, for it was designed to create it.

And the Wand moved through the owners.

And sometimes the smarter ones wondered, which was the real owner: the Wizard, or the Wand?

Death took great pleasure in taking the lives of the wizards foolish enough to actually use the Wand.

The Stone was even harsher in its curse, and it truly was ingenious.

How dare a wizard think he could take the dead away from him? From Death?

And so, a shade of the person he desired to speak with would appear, and she would be looking as alive as ever, but then she would look at him in sadness, and try to touch him, and would cry, and he would again be reminded that she was dead, this was but a shade, created by Death to taunt him with everything he desired, and couldn't get. She wouldn't talk to him, except to tempt him, to make him join her in death.

Death always chuckled when he collected those.

The third gift he had bestowed upon the brothers, he was forced to admit, was actually quite useful. He had been impressed by the thoughtfulness and the genius of the third brother, and had indeed given a part of his own Cloak to him and those of his bloodline.

But he was scrupulously fair.

So he again cursed the Cloak, that it would fail to hide the owner in Mortal Peril, when it would be the most useful.

And Death was Malevolent; and He was Benevolent.

So he waved his hand, and granted a further power to the one holding all three of them.

He or she would only die if they wished it. Their hearts would stop beating, lungs would stop breathing, but they would continue to exist, their body repairing itself with time.

Such was the gift and the curse of the Deathly Hallows.


	3. Chapter 1

He sat on the edge of Astronomy Tower, thinking. Voldemort had been killed a week ago. Struck by his own curse, talk about irony.

However, the ex Dark Lord wasn't the one keeping him awake well past mid-night. If his rough calculations were correct, dawn would appear just about an hour later.

He had never been very philosophical; the Dursleys cured him of that unnaturalness by starving him for a week, how dare a worthless freak like him dare ask questions?

He wasn't even slightly perturbed by the whispers of him suddenly being the new and improved Dark Lord. After all, only one had the ability to defeat the other, yes? He had long ago resigned himself to the flimsy nature of public opinion.

He had mourned the losses, had come to terms that he wasn't the reason that so many had died by the hands of a mad man and his fanatic followers.

No. He was currently thinking about a new problem that had presented itself just the morning after Voldemort had died.

The Deathly Hallows.

He had finally acknowledged the fact that they just won't leave him.

It wasn't that he hadn't tried getting rid of them. _Au contraire_ , he had done everything imaginable to get rid of the Stone and the Wand. On virtue of it being a family heirloom and as one of the connecting links between him and his father, he had decided on keeping and using the Cloak, but he won't pass it on. It was more than slightly disturbing to know that Death himself had created the items, his Cloak included.

He had broken the Wand, in tiny pieces, and thrown it in various parts of the Forbidden Forest while flying on his broom. He had chucked the Stone deep within the Black Lake.

The next day, the Wand and the Stone had been lying on the night-stand beside his bed.

He had then taken a lighter and _burned_ the Wand. He wasn't able to do any physical damage to the stone, but had given it to Kreacher, with the specific instruction to hide it such that they won't reach him by any human interaction.

There they were, as good as new, right beside his pillow.

He had even attempted to throw both of them in the Veil of Death, figuring they would somehow return to their creator, away from him. Key word being 'attempted.' They had _turned back_ towards him just before they could enter, smacking both his palms.

So, he sat, pondering their mystery, and hoping a mysterious figure would pop out of the shadows at any moment, complete with a scythe and bony hands, and demand them in payment for letting him live through an AK. He even looked about suspiciously, but the shadows stared back, mocking him.

They were very useful tools, he couldn't deny that. The Wand _oozed_ Power, capital. The Stone presented to him what he had dreamed about since he was a famished child hidden within his cupboard, what he had seen in the Mirror of Desire; his parents. Padfoot. Moony. Even Fred. Dumbledore. Tonks.

The problem, you ask? He couldn't trust it. Couldn't trust that they were his parents and not a mere scepter, shown to delude him into hoping, and coming back even more devastated than before.

Why such skepticism? Why not enjoy the company, even if they weren't real? Why don't indulge in a bit of happiness, yet knowing it was all built on thin air?

Because he had. The Night, as the public had taken to call the last week's battle. The Night he had died. The Night he had used the Stone, for a bit of strength. The Night he had lost his scar.

He had called his parents, Sirius and Remus to him That Night. They had told him how proud they were, and how she knew he was doing the right thing. And That Night he had Died.

But looking back on it two days later, he had realized that something was very wrong. He couldn't put a finger on it, and it was still painful for him to actively try to remember that night. But he did, if only to solve the mystery of the reappearance of the Hallows.

So, he did what had become almost a habit when he didn't understand anything. He went to Hermione and told her the complete story. He hadn't told everyone, and he wasn't foolish enough to. People would never leave him alone if it came out that he had the power to recall the dead, if for only a few moments.

Hermione, the brilliant witch that she was, took only five minutes after viewing the memory to figure it out. And then she said only a single sentence. "Harry, they are your parents."

And it was clear as day. He still didn't know how she did it, but that one sentence made the problem as clear as a Hippogryff among lions.

They were his _parents_. And they were telling him how brave he was to walk to his doom. They were _proud_ of him for basically committing suicide, whatever the cause. And _Sirius_ was telling him how painless it was. It didn't make sense. No loving parents _ever_ encouraged their child's death. If the world was ending, and their child's death would save it, they would build a spaceship and fly out of that world. Such was the selfishness of love.

And then, just for experiment, he had called Sirius again. And they talked a lot that day.

If he wasn't actively looking out for it, he would never have spotted them. Hell, he nearly hadn't even after.

Sirius had said, "And Pup, you know? The other day, Prongs had charmed Lily's hair coloured in stripes just like a tiger, and her dress was covered with tiger-lily's; and she was chasing him around. The only thing missing was you Pup."

And, "Lily was very sad on That Night, you know? She thought she could finally hold you, and she could talk to you, and cry and laugh with you. Prongs wanted to prank you so badly."

And many more such statements. He had to view the memory, to finally spot them all.

How him and his parents missed him. How they wanted to be with him.

It was so subtle. So _very_ subtle. The hints that he should join them; join them in death.

It was a kick in the gut, even after all the self preparation he had done. He felt that they had all died _again_.

He nearly went into depression, only Hermione holding him and whispering soothing words in his ear, while slowly stroking his back, as he cried on her shoulders had nipped it in the bud.

The rest of the week had been spent on finding some way, any way, to make them stay away. Hermione had suggested dropping them in a volcano. No luck even there.

He had been so desperate the day before yesterday, that he had visited one of the bunkers of the world wars, cast a Feinfyre on the objects, watched them burn to ashes, and Apparated out.

Yesterday, surprise surprise, they had returned to him.

It was his last resort, that they would stay away if he didn't sleep. Maybe he could find some way, maybe he needed to be awake at only some particular time.

If you hadn't guessed, he was grasping at straws.

As the sky started filling with light, he suppressed one of many yawns he had that night. He couldn't afford to get distracted, otherwise the whole point may be moot.

And the first rays of sunshine fell on the castle, and there they were, the Wand on his right and the Stone on his left. He hadn't felt anything, no flashes of light, no popping sounds, no blowing of winds, _nothing_.

They were just _there_ , as if they were always there, always meant to be there, and always will be there, come a new day. Always with him. To show unattainable dreams, fulfilled by lies and illusions.

He didn't know what fool would have actively sought these Hallows.

Oh, who was he kidding. Just a month or two ago, as he kept watch over their tent while Ron and Hermione slept, he had remembered the tale spoken by Xenophilius Lovegood, and dreamed of a wand that could help him defeat Voldemort.

In a way, that dream _had_ come true…

And so the saying went, _Be careful what you wish for!_


	4. Chapter 2

"How are you doing mate?" Ron said by way of a greeting. Harry tossed him a cold butterbeer before replying, "Good… good. How's the wedding planning going on?"

"Hermione and mum went to Diagon today. They tried roping me in, but I had seen George in the days before his wedding. So I noped right out. Bill said I did the right thing."

Harry hummed and said, "Yeah, I guess you did. Speaking of George, how's he?" 'after Fred's death' went unsaid but was understood by both.

"He's holding up. Angelina has helped him a lot. But he hasn't moved on, yet. He hasn't played a single prank since… well..."

"And Ginny? How is she? I have apologized to her time and again, but I just can't..."

"I think she has finally moved on. After you left her—" his tone turned slightly accusatory, Harry couldn't fault him for it, "—she was holed up in her room for days, only coming down for the meals. But she finally smiled during Charlie's birthday party, after he gave her a broom."

Harry knew that they had expected him to attend the birthday, seeing it was only the second happy moment after the war. Harry had attended George's marriage, but hadn't stayed for the after party. Even though Ron hadn't said it, Harry knew he wanted reasons, reasons he didn't have. He simply didn't want to go out much.

"So, have you decided whether you're going for the 7th year?" Harry asked, very obviously changing the topic.

"I still dunno mate. Hermione has been nagging me into signing the forms, but I dunno if I will be able to hold up. Fred is still fresh in my mind. Maybe if I give it another month, who knows?

"Enough about me already. I came to visit you. How's Teddy?" Ron asked, hoping to lighten the mood.

"He is doing great. I heard he took his fist steps just a few days ago. He is yet to show any of her mother's talents, but Andromeda is hopeful," Harry said, smiling a bit. Thinking about Teddy brightened his mood. Often during his weaker moments, when he started getting flashbacks, he would mirror-call Andromeda to look at his godson. His giggles on seeing Harry always managed to make him smile, often helping him sleep. Andromeda was quite helpful and understanding in all of it.

"If he wasn't so small, I would have kept him in a heartbeat. But I can't take care of him now. He needs a woman's touch, and I won't ever be able to repay Andromeda for her help."

"Not to mention the constant danger always around you," Ron said with a sigh.

I sighed as well. "Yeah, not to mention that."

"Hermione is getting quite worried due to your constant seclusion, you know?" He held up his hand when Harry started to speak. "I know I know. You don't want to get out of this hole you've dug out. I'm just warning you in advance, don't blame me when she drags you out by your ear. And I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'"

"I just don't feel like doing anything anymore. Whenever I see any of you, I see the faces of our dead friends. I can't cross the road without seeing Lavender bleeding out from Greyback's wounds. I just can't deal with those constant reminders..."

"I understand," said Ron, but Harry doubted him. Did he really? Could he say that if he had sacrificed himself earlier, so many lives could've been saved? Could he, really? Harry knew that he couldn't, and hoped he never would.

Damn Dumbledore. Damn Voldemort. Damn the prophecy. Damn his scar.

Ron dropped the finished bottle on the table. "Let's assume that I asked you to be my best man, and you agreed. I don't think you are in a very talkative mood, so I will leave.

"Do try to move past the war, Harry, living in the past was never good for anyone. Good day." He stood up, grabbed his outer robes from the stand by the door, and popped away.

Harry stared at the empty bottle for a long time. He watched as water condensed around the base, making a puddle around it.

Why were so many things expected of him? Why couldn't they just leave him be?

Already Shacklebolt wanted him in the Auror department. McGonagall was sending him letters again and again, most of which were left unopened in the drawer. Hermione was always trying to make him visit some place or another.

Hypocrite. As if she wasn't one who left her parents mind-wiped in some country. Hermione and he had had many arguments over this, but Hermione was too stubborn for her own good. That was another reason why he was annoyed with her. He couldn't fathom how someone would actively leave her parents. The orphan inside him still craved for parents.

He just wanted to be left alone for a while. Was this too much to ask?

The Stone of Death, as he had named it, called to him. As it always did whenever he was depressed. He resisted as much as he could, as always.

Just because he was annoyed with Hermione didn't mean he wouldn't honour his promise to her.

He eventually shifted back to his bed, preparing himself for a long night. Talking to Ron had opened unhealed wounds, they would take time to stop bleeding again.

#

He stood beside Ron as Hermione entered the Church. His black suit looked good on him, and Harry was suddenly reminded of the disaster of Yule Ball in their fourth year. He stifled his smile. He didn't want to add to Ron's nervousness.

Mr Weasley accompanied Hermione to the altar, which again annoyed Harry. But he didn't want to spoil his friends' perfect day, so he kept on smiling.

He pretended to lose Ron's ring, and laughed when he did hand it to him. His eyes met Ginny's for a brief, awkward moment, but it passed quickly. Neither acknowledged each other, which was more that fine by Harry.

The ceremony ended with the bride kissing the groom, and Harry could honestly say he was happy for them. The images of Hermione getting tortured by Bellatrix, and Ron bleeding due to splinching himself, flashed before his eyes. Wiping his tears, Harry hoped that they wouldn't ever face any danger in life. When Ron gave his signature goofy grin as he came up for air, Harry smacked him good-naturedly.

And then he hugged the both of them, and they returned it. No words were needed between the three of them.

Many in the crowd clapped. Mrs Weasley was too busy wiping her tears, but she did manage a brilliant smile, the second time Harry had seen her do so since the Battle.

Soon they went back to their new home, a wedding gift by Harry. Perhaps a few years ago Ron would've refused the gift, but he had finally got accustomed to Harry's wealth, and took the gift like a true friend.

Harry hadn't yet tried the Firewhiskey. By the amount of Butterbeer he went through a week, he had a very real chance of getting addicted. But he did have one shot of the magical whiskey on that day.

#

 _Mr Harry James Potter_

 _No 67, Brownman Street_

 _London_

 _Harry,_

 _How are you? Since you have stopped responding to my letters, I may as well assume that you have stopped reading them as well._

 _But if you are reading it, I implore you to contact me. I don't want to lose another one of my favourite students due to the war, I have already lost too many._

 _Hogwarts is as good as it can get in the limited time we had to fix it up. Even though I didn't receive your forms, I was still hopeful you would attend your 7th year. I do admit it was strange seeing Mr & Mrs Weasley sitting in the Gryffindor table without the third part of the trio. It will take time for me to get used to it._

 _I will remind you that I am still willing to accept you if you are so inclined, however small the chance may be._

 _I will end the letter here, hoping you would finally answer my letters._

 _Headmistress McGonagall_

 _Hogwarts, Scotland_

The latest letter sitting unread in Harry's drawer read.


	5. Chapter 3

The sound of a ringing doorbell echoed in the deserted house that had once belonged to Sirius Black. A frail and old elf named Kreacher opened the heavy doors.

"Harry Potter?" he asked. Old age had taken away the gift of eyesight from him, but he could still sense the peculiar magic of his master.

Harry stoll into the house, ignoring the elf for now.

Kreacher, frail as he was, still managed to follow Harry as he went up the stairs and walked through the hallways. The proximity of his master was aiding him, just enough that he could keep up.

Dust covered every surface, every door-knob, every chandelier. Kreacher woke up every day lamenting the fact that he could no longer serve the house.

It had been five years since he had last seen his master. His magic couldn't keep up for that long a time, hard as he tried.

His master finally addressed him.

"Where is it?"

"What, halfblood master?"

He could imagine his master's face scowling. He smirked.

"The Black library."

Hard as he tried, he was forced to say the truth.

"It vanished when Master Black died."

His master was silent for a moment.

"Damnit."

Yes, Kreacher decided. Annoying the halfblood felt good.

"How can I get it back."

"You can't, master."

Nothing forced him to say the complete truth, however.

Silence reigned for a few moments.

"What is the procedure to bring back the library after the death of all Blacks in the main branch of the family?"

Muddy blood of the scum, why did his master have to be smart as well.

"You need to spill the blood of another Black on the main door of the house." Let him think that he would have to kill...

"What is the least amount of blood needed for this to work?"

Kreacher scowled. "A drop of blood is sufficient, _halfblood master_."

"Very well," and with that his master was gone, and he was once again alone in the house.

The little hope that his master would not find another Black were dashed when he appeared back at the door, and Kreacher felt the blood spill on the frame and the Ancient magics of the house working to serve its new master.

Kreacher opened the potion box in the kitchen and drank all the potions inside. He might as well die now, he couldn't live to witness the House of Black under a halfblood.

Harry felt his skin tingle as Andromeda's blood absorbed into the door. He entered the house again, this time easily finding the library where he had remembered it. The useless elf was off to somewhere Harry didn't care one bit about.

So much knowledge, just collecting dust here.

Not when he could do anything about it.

He waved the elder wand, using the full magic it provided, and shrunk the library down to the size where he could carry it in his trunk.

Through the whirlwind of magic he spotted the a book called _Demons, Dragons, Danger_ , and almost thought that maybe, just maybe, some books were better left undisturbed. But then a logical voice in his head scolded him, 'It is just knowledge,' it said 'how will you know how to defeat the evil if you can't recognise it? You wouldn't use the knowledge anyhow.'

Harry shook his head and continued till the library was just a big, empty room.

He latched his trunk, took a look around, and made his way out of the house, cast a _feindfyre_ at the painting of Walburga, and apparated away.

Good Riddance.

He entered his home and closed the door with a definitive click. Magic rippled across the room, sealing his home from the outside world.

He checked his brewing stand. The deadly green potion simmered in the unbreakable glass. It's just in case, Harry told himself as he had made the deadliest poison known to the world, just in case he needs it. If anyone ever asked him, he wouldn't be able to answer when exactly he would need it. Or when he would need the new blasting curse which wiped out all life in a 5 feat radius, or the theory behind transfiguring a piece of cloth into hot steaming lava. No, he was preparing for anything and everything.

Was it really paranoia if they were actually out to get you?

No, Harry decided, it wasn't.

His fascination with death had slowly driven away his friends. Hermione had tried reasoning with him many times, about how what he was doing was dangerous, and what could happen if it fell into the wrong hands.

He had assured her that no one but him could enter his research room, which was under a slight variation of Fidelius which allowed him to be the Secret Keeper. He had told her the only way his plan could go wrong was if he somehow went dark. Hermione had not been reassured for some bizarre reason.

Ron had taken longer to give up, stubbornly coming to his house every sunday for a bottle of cold butterbeer. And he managed well, for a time. After a while, silence started occupying more and more of the time they drank, and after three months and two weeks of not one of them saying a word, the next week Ron too made his excuses. Oh well. Harry didn't need them anyway. All they did was occupy his time that he could use for research now.

He touched the ring which contained the Stone. So many things which could be much easier if he just used it. He could have asked Herpy himself if the process of making a Horcrux needed a cold murder, or if self-defence could have worked. So, so, much information quite literally at his fingertips. But he had somehow stopped himself from using the Stone until now, but it kept on getting harder everyday.

He sat down to read _Dementors and Fear Itself_ and tried to understand the archiac language in which it was written. So engrossed was he that he could see the stars outside his window when he looked back up.

Harry sighed. Marking the page he was reading, he made his way through the mess of parchment and maps on his floor, and made his way to the bed.

He pulled out his Cloak, laid down, used it to cover himself, and closed his eyes. He could never be too sure.

He smiled as he remembered meeting Teddy. He was six years old now. Six year old and _curious_. His questions had never seemed to stop. Harry's gift of a dancing parrot (hastily transfigured right before entering Andy's house) had occupied him for all of five minutes, and he was back at talking about everything under the sun.

Andromeda was getting older, Harry knew. She would not be able to take care of Teddy for longer. Harry just couldn't bring himself to accept custody of Teddy. He was dealing with very powerful magics, this was no place for a curious, naughty child.

He tossed and turned in his bed, slowly slipping into the land of dreams.

The next morning, his doorbell woke him up.

"Yes?" he asked bleary eyed.

Kingsley seemed rather unimpressed.

"Mr Potter?"

"Do I look like a Malfoy to you?"

Kingsley merely raised his eyebrow. Harry shook his head.

"Sorry. What can I do for you Mr Shacklebolt?"

"We recieved an update yesterday that you are the new Lord Black. Is this true?"

Harry wasn't agreeing to anything just yet.

"If I am?" His finger were around his wand already.

"Oh nothing at all!" Kingsley said, "we always meet the new Lords to confirm their Lordship. Too many cases of little wizards becoming a Lord due to their parent's negligence." He added the last part on Harry's questioning look.

"Well then, nothing to worry here, Kingsley. Anything else?"

Kingsley shook his head. "You still won't be taking me up on the Auror Program, yes?"

Harry was about to shake his head when an idea popped inside his head. The Department of Mysteries. If he could somehow join that department...

"Actually..." Kingsley's face showed interest, "I was thinking of maybe applying to the DoM. Could you see to it that the process goes swiftly?"

His face lit up.

"Oh most definitely, Mr Potter, most definitely. You will be getting the Unspeakable training in no time."

Training? "But can't I skip training?"

"Oh no Mr Potter," he shook his head. "Everyone must be given the same treatment. I won't have the ministry infested with favouritism again. Not after Voldemort."

People had finally started using the name instead of using that ridiculous moniker.

Harry agreed with Kingsley. That didn't make it any less annoying for him.

"I'll send the letter by owl then."

Kingsley nodded, turned around, and apparated from the spot.

Harry shook his head again, trying to keep off the sleep from claiming him till he had the coffee.


End file.
